by Diana Stone
Eric comes up and takes his horse with a thank you. He says he has recovered and will take Calypso. I relinquish control, but I sure like walking around with this beautiful, big horse on the other end of the rope. Although, this isn’t too bad… I have both the man and the horse next to me.
There’s the final vet check an hour later to make sure the horses are back to normal. Calypso is fine and stands proudly while being examined… he’s such a ham.
At the awards ceremony, Eric picks up his completion medal. It looks like it’s bronze and has a raised horse and rider on one side. It’s strung on a purple ribbon. He hands it to me and I slip it over my head with pride.
The post ride BBQ is a different from the night before. Now everyone is talking about certain patches of uneven ground, rocky terrain, and how the trail was poorly marked in one place. Some went off course, losing ten minutes to backtracking. I can sympathize since I did that—twice. Though not everyone went off course, so it was partially rider error. Though I’d never say that.
“It’s impressive to have a pre-race BBQ and post-race lunch. Is this a Santa Ynez thing?” I ask with a glass of wine in my hand.
“Sure is. It gives the wineries another chance to share their treasures. No one wants to go home early. We all hang around, eat and talk about how we would have come in fifteen minutes earlier if only something or other hadn’t happened,” he explains.
Lunch is communal, so we sit with the group of riders Eric has known for years. They’re laughing about past rides, past horses and past days. What a nice bunch of people. I’m included in the banter and get to express opinions and information that I think is worthwhile. I seem to be accepted and I even stimulate some personal discussion.
When I return from a trip to the bathroom, the conversation stops for a second as everyone looks at me. Then they all quickly speak at once. Like they’ve been talking about me. What’s this all about, I wonder.
Someone mentions that there’s a dance next Saturday night in town. It has a small competition, but it’s mostly just a get-together for fun. We’re all discussing the different dances we can, and can’t do, and which music we prefer.
Eric looks at me. “Do you dance?”
“I do now. After my divorce, I met someone who was taking East Coast Swing lessons. He showed me how to step, step, rock step. I started taking lessons once a week. Then a few of us would get together and go dancing on Thursday nights. Which also lead to dancing every weekend. It’s pretty easy to find a restaurant with a little band you can dance to. I stopped seeing that guy after my fourth date, but I found lots of nice people to practice with.”
“You look like a dancer, the way you walk,” he smiles suggestively.
“Thanks. I’m an okay dancer, but I’m a little rusty. I can do a smattering of everything from the Waltz to West Coast Swing. For years I hated being invited to weddings because I didn’t dance and I was embarrassed saying no when someone asked me. I still don’t have a clue about freestyle dancing. I need a partner to feel right,” I admit.
“Would you like to join me at the dance on Saturday? I can manage a few steps,” he asks with a hint of boyish charm.
“I’d love to!” There’s no hesitation on my part.
The afternoon is lovely. I get to see Eric converse and laugh with friends. He has such an easy way about him. I don’t see any glitches or issues. Things guys do when they’re together… drink too much, swear, woman-bash; I don’t see any of that. What a great guy, I really like him. That may be putting it mildly, but I’m not going to rush into it—this time.
33
The Dance
The days pass easily. The rides are all good, the clients are happy and vow to return next year.
Eric and my mead making dinners are on hold for the week. He still has a business project he’s working on and will be in and out of town. He apologizes profusely for having to skip our night. He also says he can’t wait to dance with me on Saturday. Now, that’s the kind of attention I like. Oh yes, he phoned me, he didn’t just send a text like that jerk.
Eric is picking me up at 6:00. I’m spending less time prepping for the dance than for our double date. It’s pretty fast doing my hair since I’ll be wearing it in a ponytail, I’m not curling it tonight. I’m wearing snug spandex black pants and a slinky black spandex sleeveless top. It’s all black, but it looks good on the dance floor. I still have to make a trip down to my mother’s guest room. That’s where I have most of my clothes boxed and hanging.
Eric pulls his car up to the house, reminding me of the first time he skidded in with his trailer. Those are fond memories and I’m still accumulating them. The dance is being held at the Tempest Bottling Company. The location is great, there’s lots of room, but the flooring isn’t exactly a dance floor. I won’t be able to spin too well. It will be more like stepping in a tiny circle, or my shoes will stick to the floor and my feet will end up shoeless.
The drive mostly entails discussing dance moves and which ones are our favorites. The music is playing when we arrive, it’s flooding out the double doors. I’m already smiling and moving to the beat.
“Are you getting prepared for the competition?” he asks.
“I’ll have to first warm up and get a feel for your lead. Like I said, it’s been a while since I’ve danced,” I’m a little nervous.
“I think you’ll be great, you have nothing to worry about.”
He’s so sweet to say that. I hope he’s right.
I’m having a great time and Eric is a really good dancer. He has an energy and vitality that are very attractive. He is particularly good at West Coast Swing. It’s such a sexy dance, it gives me the freedom to add my own elements. The more we dance, the more I remember. I start to loosen up and relax and flirt with my movements. I usually never flirt since I don’t want to entice the guy. But with Eric, it’s becoming a flirting game. I’m doing lots of ponytail swinging, coy smiles, and hip movement. He is holding me close in his arms, touching my back and hips. Heavens, this is like some kind of wild-flamingo-mating-dance you see on National Geographic. I have to applaud him though, I hate the hip grind and he doesn’t do it to me. I find it too primitive to show in public.
The halfway point gives me a chance to grab a few cookies and two cups of water for us. We sit and catch our breaths and stretch out some muscles that are complaining from the unaccustomed dance moves.
“You sure are fit,” he notices.
I laugh. “Are you kidding, I’m running on adrenaline. It’s a good thing I ride and hike or this would wipe me out. You’re the fit one. Are you sure you’re 40?”
“Time hasn’t caught up with me yet. I still have certain drives,” he hints.
“Uh huh, I bet you have. Anyone can see you’re sexy and fit,” I say with a smile but I do admit, even to myself, he’s a catch.
“I’m glad you think so,” he gives me a suggestive look.
Wow. All I want to do is sit here, basking in that look.
The conversation moves to a tamer topic. We grab a few more cookies for energy and for their taste. Oh? They’re from Monica’s. That explains why they taste so good.
At these events, there’s a “mixer” to allow everyone a chance to dance. It’s is coming up after the band returns from their break. The women line up one side of the room, and a column of men forms on the other. You step forward to get your new partner. Then you dance with that person all the way down the middle of the room until you reach the end. Then he goes to the male side and she goes to the woman’s side. It’s great since you get to dance with others if you didn’t come with a partner, or if yours isn’t any good. But, it’s not so good if the man you get can’t dance.
I work through the mixer a couple of times. As I’m stepping forward to the next male in line, I see it’s Jack. That’s interesting. I hadn’t seen him a minute prior. I bet he cut in line.
He holds out his hand, I place mine in his. It’s a waltz. I firm up my core and tilt my head back
. His right hand is between my shoulder blades, his left is leading the direction of travel. He is a good leader. It feels as though it’s just here and now, nothing else but us. I have a misstep or two and return to the reality that he’s moving us around the floor and the other dancers are gazing at us. I feel beautiful and he looks so masculine.
He never sends me back to the end of the women’s line. We finish the song and someone requests the band play another waltz. I’m stepping back in time. Back to a time when men wore uniforms with sabers, and ladies wore long white gloves and satin ball gowns. He is a man who stands apart from the rest. How does he do it? How does he hold my interest so effortlessly?
My eyes are locked on his face for the next dance. My left hand is holding on to his bicep. He is refusing to give me up to dance with anyone else. It’s like he has a hunger for me, I feel it radiating from him. I’m attracted to him. And with this feeling, I’m letting myself go and I’m responding to him. We dance to a few more songs, then the announcer advises there will be a break while they prepare for the competition. There will be time allowed for the dancers to practice.
We stand together with Jack’s arm still around me, he hasn’t let go. I’m still in his power and don’t want to go anywhere.
“You’re a good dancer, you’re easy to lead,” he is speaking in low tones and it’s what he isn’t saying that’s getting to me. His tone is so sensual
“Thanks, it’s easy with you.”
“I see you’re with Eric Paxton tonight. Didn’t it work out with Monica?” He seems to have forgotten he used to call him Eric.
“No, Monica thinks he may be better for someone else.” Um, me?
“Are you seeing him?” He gives me an intense look and smooths back a loose hair from my face. “I’m in no position to complain, but I’m not happy…”
Eric arrives before any other words leave Jack’s lips. They shake hands like rivals. Eric’s smile is deliberate, but not friendly. He advises Jack that he and I are partners and we need time to practice. He puts his hand out for me to take. He has made a firm request for my hand. I’ve never seen him so strong-minded. This is a new side of him. I thought he was just a nice guy, but now I see he has a strong side. He’s taking back his possession… me. I like it.
With a smile, I place my hand in his. Then I look at Jack. “Thanks for the dance, I enjoyed it,” then I deliberately turn away.
Well, that was interesting. It looks like Jack didn’t dump me after all. Or he’s playing a game with my emotions. I do feel a tug, but I will get over it. I won’t tolerate how he treated me. No matter what his excuse. I’ll remember our dance tonight as an anomaly. That’s the end of it. No assholes for me, no matter how attractive and wealthy.
Before the practice time, I let Eric know I need to dash to the ladies room.
At the door, I step aside for a lady walking out. Then I realize it’s Mrs. Johansen. She’s the wealthy lady the psycho is targeting.
“Oh, Mrs. Johansen. Hello, I’m Jessica Wilcox. May I PLEASE have a word with you? I promise I won’t take but a few minutes of your time.
“Very well, I’ll give you a moment,” she replies with forced politeness.
“I understand you may have been told otherwise, but I’d like to tell you what happened when I first met Mr. Pickett.” I briefly pause, “I was at Jack Courtland’s party with friends. Mr. Pickett approached me and he told me it was his place and that he had questions about decorating it. Then he asked me to follow him into the employee’s office. At the time I didn’t know he wasn’t Mr. Courtland since I’d never met the real one. Once in the office, he shoved me backward onto the desk and forced kisses on my face. Jack Courland’s manager came in with his guard and threw us both out. Later, Jack apologized to me once he found out what had happened. He also called the police and discovered that Mr. Pickett has a criminal history for fraud.” I stop for a breath and see she’s following the conversation. “One night I was driving my truck and there were two rattlesnakes someone had placed in a sack in the back seat. On the bag was a sticker with an ugly face drawn on it. The police and fire department were there. It took a long time to get the snake off my leg. I was forced to sit in my truck with it soaking up my warmth. Jack was with me in the truck if you need confirmation. I cannot prove it was Mr. Pickett, but I don’t have any enemies.” I make this as descriptive as possible, yet also logical, since I don’t know which will appeal to her.
“I see.” That’s all she says.
“I’ve heard that you are going to marry him, just please be aware that he isn’t what he seems. At least get a prenuptial agreement, or a trust, or something to protect yourself. I know you don’t know me, but I’m not a nut and I’d hate to see you hurt,” I implore.
She looked at me long and hard. “I will give this some consideration,” she states without emotion. She’d make a good poker player.
“Thank you for listening to me. I was a police officer, and I’m also a good daughter and I’m an honorable person. I know this is a lot to take in, please check out my information. There is nothing I want from you, I have nothing to gain from telling you this,” I tell her with conviction.
She’s beginning to look a little ill—like perhaps some of my words are resonating with her.
“Thank you, dear,” she touches my shoulder and walks out.
Whew, that was emotional. I had to choose my words carefully. I’ve done my best. It’s up to her now.
Back on the dance floor, I tell Eric about the exchange. He gives me a quick hug and lifts my chin when I’m staring at the floor.
“You’re a special woman, you know that?”
“Why do you say that?”
“You deal with drama and danger and emotions with such calm grace. Now, how about we kick ass on the dance floor?” he deftly changes the subject.
He gives me his right hand, I place mine in his and we glide onto the floor.
The announcer tells us that we will be judged on our versatility with ten dances. TEN! Latin, ballroom, swing, country-western. This is something of a trick since the band had only played swing and ballroom this evening. Yikes. I look at Eric and he’s okay with it. He gives me a nod and a smile. We can do it.
All is well until the Merengue. I can’t get the timing. I look around trying to figure out what I’m supposed to be doing. Nearly everyone is having trouble, so I relax a little. We all have our strengths, but this isn’t one of mine. It takes half the song for me to get it to look remotely like what it should be. So I fake it somewhat, with Latin hip movement. What else can I do?
Eric smiles encouragingly. I find out later that he only knows the basic steps, so I wasn’t holding him back in that regard.
What a relief to do the West Coast Swing, I can move the way I know, and not have to work as hard. Our waltz is nice. Though I’d never tell him in a hundred years that it isn’t as masterful as Jack’s. That is our final dance and everyone claps. The band stands for applause for their good playing. The announcer starts with the fifth place dancers. People clap as they get their little trophies. Then fourth place. Eric and I come in third, and I’m thrilled. My Merengue was atrocious. I don’t even know what it is supposed to look like. The winning partners are excellent as they make a victory lap performing the Tango. They’re very impressive and very sexy.
“We can look better than they do if we take lessons,” he suggests.
“I’m happy with third place. Coming from someone who never, never danced anywhere in public, I’m thrilled to have done so well!”
“Don’t you want to give up our mead nights and take Tango lessons… we can learn it on video?” he jokes.
“Eh, no.”
“That’s fine with me, whatever you want.”
Wow, what he said sunk in, he’s so easy going. What a nice change.
The band closes up and the lights come on brightly. Light background music plays on a CD. We mill around for a while, chatting with our fellow dancers and the other visitors.
It feels almost like we are a couple. It’s a nice friendly feeling being with a man I feel comfortable with. What a nice change after the tension of an ex-husband who I could never please. And Jack the aggressive-possessive vintner.
I don’t want to go home. I just want to stand here feeling happy and included. I’m deep in conversation with a horse breeder when Eric slips his arm around my waist. He wants to include me in the discussion he is having with the mayor. I excuse myself from the horse breeder. I give my attention to Eric and the mayor.
She welcomes me to Solvang and says she heard about my rattlesnake incident. She tells me I’m the talk of the town. It occurs to me that perhaps she can influence Mrs. Johansen. So I ask if she knows her.
“Abbie and I go way back. We used to ride in the same Pony Club,” she laughs.
I explain my history of misadventures with psycho Pickett… I relay them with a lot of emotion, like a good crime drama. I advise her that I’m concerned that while Mrs. Johansen is a lovely lady, she isn’t in the same age bracket as Pickett. I think she’ll be his next victim of fraud and is being used for her money. The mayor is my chance at changing “Abbie’s” mind and she looks absolutely horrified at the possibility of her friend succumbing to a crook.
“I had no idea your story was entwined with hers if you pardon my use of words,” she places her hand on her cheek in dismay. “I saw her tonight, I’ll go find her… immediately. Take it from me, she won’t be marrying him, I’ll see to it,” she gives us a quick smile and dashes off to the rescue.
“Oh, now I see why you pulled me over.” I’m impressed.
“Jess you never told me all the details about the rattlesnake. I see why you’re so enamored with Courtland, but I also would have done anything to help you.”
“I know you would. I have some things I need to work out. I really like you, more than like. I don’t want to rush onto a path I’m not sure of.” Time to change the subject. “Thank you for introducing me to the mayor.”
